


Questions and the Inevitable

by MemeHill



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Exploring some things, I Don't Even Know, Just a ficlet, Kind of a blurb I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeHill/pseuds/MemeHill
Summary: Just a shot piece about what goes through Bucky's mind during the periods of cryosleep they put him through.





	Questions and the Inevitable

How many years had it been? Twenty? Fifty? Stuck here in this cryosleep, and held accountable for actions that were, yet weren't my own. Kept sane only by the faint voice in my hand of a man that once was, but never will be. The face of a boy, no man who stands a head shorter, but is filled with the fight of a thousand men. Who is he? Who am I? Am I some sort of being, thats kept just between reality and the beyond? Am I a murderer? That one is a yes, no matter what the other voice says. The blood on your hands is not on your hands. It whispers in my darkest hours. Even if I have not murdered who I am in the sense of being a murderer, I have still murdered one person. Myself. Stop these thought. Another voice fills my mind, the voice of the man with the blonde hair. Except this time, he stands tall and strong, living up to the lion that was inside all along.

“by which we call a rose” was that poem fitting? Something about two people killing one another? By Snowspear or someone of the sort… Some forgot poem which he would once recite to pretty girls before dancing the night away. Night. I can remember sleeping in a small bed, where his younger sister would come curl up with him on stormy and cold nights. I remembered sleeping and dreaming dreams to visible, too good for someone like me to dream. Maybe they were about a nice life with a wife and a picket fence and a blue car. Maybe about a simple life lived with my blonde man by his side, taking on the world one punch at a time. Who knows……….I liked that last dream, actually. But that is all that would ever be, a dream. Never a reality, for that blonde man was long gone and probably dead. Maybe at my own hands, maybe due to old age. Maybe in that horrid war that once was.

I can feel something bursting under my chest. Some ugly feeling of pain, but not in the physically sense. Like it was crawling its way out of my throat in an ugly manner which demanded it be felt. Was this the end of me? Was I to die due to some unknown ailment? Was this how I ended? Cold, alone, with some unknown thing bursting through my chest and up my throat? No, it was too quick. When I die, it would be slow and painful to make up for all the deaths caused by me. Of that, I am certain. But what was this? It almost felt like I need to scream. Not one of rage, but one of pain. Something that expressed this damned pain…

I am trapped. In my own body, in my own mind. I am merely a spectator to another of which in habits my body, twisting it and taking it in directions of which I do not approve. Turning me, making me walk, talk, punch, kick and shoot. I was kept in a cage of mental metal. I was forced to watch this horror and keep silent, for if I broke through I would surely be eliminated. When they bring me back out again, I will surely be wiped away, like a stain on an otherwise clean white shirt. Like the mark of a man, that is persistent and ever present, even when gone. When they wipe me away, I will come back. Asking all of these questions again, growing a little more insane with every change, challenge, question and silence. I do fear for my own psyche sometimes, but what am I to do? I am a helpless man in chains, a prisoner of my own mind. I wonder what will happen to me once I awake again…

I sat and pondered for a bit and came to a conclusion to my many answers. A faint word resounds in my mind, but my time is up. I can feel the cold drift away and the feeling in my hands and feet return. My legs and my arms are next to awake, but it is a painful process. When my eyes open up, I will be greeted with light, for that is what they will shine in my eyes to see if their precious prison is still alive. I will not say a word, I will not make a move that is my own. They will drag me away and lay me in a chair. They will strap me and string me up. I will be like a doll, for them to remold and remake everytime. They will take away everything I am, once again, and I will die with one word on my lips and in my mind. An answer of which I know for certain….

Bucky.


End file.
